Casting Lots
by brookemopolitan
Summary: An Escort is trapped by the Capitol just as much as a Tribute is. Late at night during the 74th Hunger Games, Effie reveals the reality of her choice (or lack thereof) in career to Haymitch. Hayffie if you squint.


**This was mostly an exercise in catharsis for me. Since watching Catching Fire (and subsequent rewatches of The Hunger Games), I've had so many fragments of scenes swirling in my head, mostly about Effie (because she's awesome), and my shipper heart has latched onto the idea of her and Haymitch something fierce. This was the first one that came together and it just had to come out. I figured I'd post it here and see what the reaction was.**

**I don't own... though I want Effie's wardrobe :)**

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Haymitch stumbled back into the penthouse, trying not to make noise in his drunken state and failing miserably. The Games were in full swing, which meant that every bar in the Capitol was open to the wee hours of the morning, and Victors, even the ones who were disgraced and had never managed to mentor a Tribute to ultimate victory, drank free. He'd sat in his favourite bar, steadfastly refusing to even glance at the screen that displayed the Games in all their glory. The more people approached Haymitch, crowing about his victory in the Quarter Quell, the more he slunk back in his booth, glowering into his whiskey, waiting for the crowds to thin.

He hated everything about the Hunger Games. The frivolity, the massive expenditure of resources as citizens of Panem starved, the sheer waste of human life. He let out a loud groan when he saw the large screen of the Penthouse blasting the highlights of the 74th Games, the light from the screen illuminating a feminine silhouette, curled up near the arm of the luxurious couch.

"You didn't wait up for me, did you Princess?" Haymitch slurred, flopping down at the other end of the couch; the whiskey burning through his veins making him just aggressive enough to needle at the Escort and see just how much of a push it would take to get under her skin.

Effie had felt blood rush to her face the second the door swung open. She was sure she'd be alone for the evening. Cinna had disappeared off to charm a fabric dealer, utterly convinced he would need fine silks to create Katniss's victory dress. Effie hadn't known where his certainty had come from, but she'd waved him out of the door regardless. She knew Haymitch would be off drinking, unlikely to be seen again until midday the next day. With the knowledge that she was blissfully alone, Effie had stripped off the silks, powders and wig that made up her Capitol armour and settled herself onto the couch, glass of wine in hand and notebook open, just in case she spotted something in the evening's Hunger Games action that she needed to follow up. At one point, she'd even dared to start planning a Victory Tour.

She snapped the notebook shut when Haymitch walked into the room. She felt utterly exposed, golden blonde hair falling around her shoulders, dressed only in soft flowing pants and a pale purple linen shirt, her face bare. She certainly wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how unsettled she was, particularly when he drunkenly leered at her. She schooled her features into cool disinterest. "Don't flatter yourself, Mr Abernathy," she responded, her tone icy. "You know that I try and see as much of the Games as I can each year."

"Of course you do," Haymitch snarled. Typical Capitol response. "They're just entertainment to you. Never mind the poor district scum that get their heads beaten in so that you can have your fun."

Effie stiffened. "You have no idea," she murmured.

Haymitch kicked his shoes off, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Just another move of drunken brilliance to try and make Effie's head pop clean off her shoulders. "The Capital froths at the mouth for the Games. It's the highlight of the year. And you, Effie Trinket," he scoffed. "You decided that you had to go above and beyond. You decided to be the one that ushers the lambs to the slaughter."

Effie was no stranger to Haymitch's drunken barbs. She bore the brunt of them routinely, fixing a smile on her face and repressing the urge to throttle him as his harsh words lodged deeper and deeper into her subconscious. Tonight was different. She didn't know if it was her vulnerable state of dress, stripped bare of Capitol fineries, or the early hours of the morning, but she wasn't going to let him get away with his cruelty this evening. "You're an idiot," she sighed. "Do you really think I chose this?"

He gave a drunken snort, standing up to move over to the liquor cabinet, selecting a bottle of whiskey, removing the cork with his teeth. He loosened his tie and sat back down on the couch. "Are you telling me that somebody selected your name out of a ballot and shoved you into this? That you had absolutely no choice in the matter?" The condescension was difficult to miss.

Effie cleared her throat, tossing her blonde hair off her shoulder. "When Capitol children are ten years old, they're put through a month of strenuous testing by the education board," she mentioned quietly. "Everything is tested. Spelling, numeracy, the ability to recall events, capacity for abstract thought," she explained. "From the results of those tests, our futures are decided."

Haymitch took a swill from the bottle, trying to appear indifferent even though his interest was piqued. "What do you mean?"

Effie had to admit that she had no idea how education worked in the Districts. She assumed that most children left school early, forced to go to work to provide for their families. "Based on the results of the tests, the education of Capitol children becomes tailored to channelling them into the field that they will best be able to serve Panem. Students who excel in strategy and engineering are educated so that they will eventually become Gamemakers, for example," Effie explained, trying desperately not to sound didactic. "So you see, Haymitch, my fate was sealed long before I had the opportunity," she wrinkled her nose, "to Reap a child."

Silence fell across the room. The Games were muted, but Effie cringed none the less when she saw a highlight package of the Games, Peeta engaging in a scuffle at the Cornucopia, taking the handle of an axe to his face. "If you hate your fate so much," the condescension was still there, but it had lessened slightly, "Why are you such a miserable bitch to all the Tributes?" Haymitch asked.

Drunken words were sober thoughts, Effie mused. "I was warned that my protective instincts would hinder my abilities as an Escort," She began, "but my organisational skills were above and beyond anybody else's in my cohort and there was no way that my instructors were going to squander that. I learned what a burden those instincts could be when I completed my final internship."

Haymitch found himself moving from the opposite end of the couch, strangely intrigued by this vulnerable, tragically beautiful woman who seemed the stark opposite of everything he'd seen so far of the Escort to District Twelve. "What happened?" He asked. In a true show of gentlemanly decorum, he offered her the bottle of whiskey in his grasp.

Effie wrinkled her nose and shook her head, instead snagging her wine glass and rising gracefully, her bare feet sinking into the luxurious carpet as she refilled her glass with her favourite District One red. "Do you remember the Games eight years ago?" She asked. "I was assistant to the Escort from District Nine."

Haymitch racked his brain, trying to remember that year. The Careers had been brutal and both his Tributes had been massacred within seconds of the Games starting. He'd been particularly inebriated that year. "The Tribute who was bludgeoned to death with a brick?" He asked.

Effie cleared her throat, willing her eyes to remain dry. "It was a rock, actually," She corrected him, sinking back down onto the couch, far closer to the centre than she had been before. "And I'd treated both those Tributes like family," she declared. "I had to be sedated, I was so hysterical."

At Haymitch's noise of disgust, she only shrugged, taking a delicate sip of her wine. "When I woke up, it was only my Mentor Escort in the room. He braced my shoulders and hissed into my ear that if I ever lost it like that again, I'd find myself serving the Capitol in far more carnal ways." Her Capitol accent had softened, the wistful nostalgia of days gone by sprinkled her words like rainfall, the implication of her words clear.

Realisation dawned upon Haymitch. He'd hopelessly misjudged this woman. She was well aware that she was the harbinger of doom from the moment she stepped off the train at the outskirts of District Twelve, ready to shepherd innocent children to their death. Her frippery and adherence to an etiquette system completely foreign to the children of an outlying district was the opposite of Capitol bred indifference to the lives of people in the Districts; it was the only armour she had to stop her from investing in the doomed lives of her Tributes. The Capitol had cast the dice long before either of them had come along, and Effie was only playing within the rules of her gilded cage.

A map flashed up on the screen, identifying the location of each of the Tributes. "This year is going to be hard," Effie sighed. She flashed Haymitch a mournful smile. "I really like both of them."

His drunkenness almost forgotten, Haymitch studied the map, singling out the location of the Tributes of District Twelve. "She's right on the edge of the map," he murmured, the strategist in him taking over as he analysed the positions of the Tributes. "District Eleven's Tributes are no real threat," he mused.

"What does that mean?" Effie asked.

Haymitch shook his head, tearing his eyes away from Katniss, strapped to a tree branch, sound asleep. "It means that they're going to force Katniss into the fray," he decided. "She's no fun when she's at the edges of the arena, out of the path of the Careers."

"Would they do that with something like a gigantic ball of fire?" Effie screeched, pointing at the screen. Like she said, a roaring wall of fire had cropped up, moving toward Katniss's treat.

"That's exactly what I mean," Haymitch moaned, eyes glued to the action, snagging the remote to turn up the volume. "Wake up, Sweetheart," he murmured under his breath, urging Katniss on as if she could hear him in the arena.

Effie hummed nervously, one perfectly manicured hand slipping to her mouth, where she proceeded to fall back to a terrible childhood habit, nibbling on her nails, her adrenaline pumping. Without realising it, her other hand had sought out Haymitch's, interlocking her fingers with his. He only gave her hand a gentle squeeze, not saying a word as he studied the screen, muttering encouragements as Katniss picked up her tiny bundle of equipment and ran.

"Oh God," Effie squeaked, squeezing Haymitch's hand until her knuckles turned white as Katniss was forced to stop, the thick smoke forcing her to heave and vomit what little sustenance she had managed to find. Effie jumped when a fireball exploded, spurring Katniss back into action.

"They're playing for keeps this year," Haymitch murmured, his roughened fingers clinging to Effie's hand. He wondered when he'd had the chance to notice the softness of her skin. "Seneca Crane has a point to prove."

"It's his third year as Head Gamemaker," Effie pointed out. "He needs to prove his worth or he'll be tossed out like last season's dress."

Katniss had stopped to retch again. Effie let out a little scream and Haymitch hissed in sympathy when a fireball caught the cuff of Katniss's pants. Even without the smell of burning flesh, Katniss's moans of pain were heartwrenching, and once again Effie cursed her aptitude scores of decades past. Why hadn't she scored appropriately to be a shopkeeper, or a housewife? Anything would be better than this.

"She put it out," Haymitch crowed.

"Oh thank heavens," Effie sighed, relief flooding her veins as Katniss found a stream to bathe her burned flesh in.

A new kind of tension settled in the room. Both their eyes settled on their joined hands. There was no protocol for this. Effie was floundering.

"Katniss's burns look bad," Haymitch decided. He stood up abruptly, running a hand through his greasy hair.

A frown crossed Effie's brow when she felt the loss of contact. She didn't miss it, did she? The comforting weight of somebody's hand in hers, sharing in the burden of watching two children doomed to suffer and die. Surely not.

"They look horrific," Effie agreed.

"I should sleep," Haymitch decided. "And shower."

"You'll find no complaints from me about that," Effie jibed, trying desperately to insert some of her usual haughtiness in her tone, if only to regain the equilibrium in their relationship. The charged snippiness she could deal with. This new, serious Haymitch was an entirely different beast.

"She'll need burn cream if she's going to continue," Haymitch decided, talking to himself as if she wasn't even there. "Which means I have sponsor ass to kiss."

In a blur of whiskey and cologne, he was gone.

Effie sat on the couch, puzzled. She didn't know what had just happened. Not only had she managed to have a conversation with Haymitch completely devoid of hostility, but something had changed in him. Some light had been switched on and he was acting like the Mentor he was supposed to be.

She didn't find that attractive. She _didn't._

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**The idea that Capitol children's education would be tailored to their skill set is an idea stolen from the Soviet Union and Mao's China, where it was common practice (I'm not sure if it's still the case) for children with particular aptitudes, generally for sport or dance, to receive specialised training from a young age so that they would eventually become elite athletes. This idea is explored in _Mao's Last Dancer_. I took the idea and put it on crack for the Capitol, but I don't think it seems out of the realm of possibility that the Capitol would be that controlling, even if it does make my Effie head canon slightly left of centre to the fanon I've seen.**

**I would love to hear your thoughts, and please come and play with me on twitter, under the handle brookemopolitan **


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